


Of Mechs and Dogs Interludes

by fuzipenguin



Series: Of Mechs and Dogs [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bits from secondary characters within the Of Mechs and Dogs Series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distractions - Wheeljack

                He’s pretty preoccupied (the applications of the Bostech theory in energon refinement is _fascinating_ ), but something manages to drag his attention away from his own musings.

                He thinks it’s the sensory panels. Not many frames have them now a day as they can be detrimental in crowds. But he sees fluttering in the corner of an optic, and the action grabs hold of his processor.

                He comes to a stop, ignoring the exasperated remark that comes from behind him with long practice. His arms fall, datapad loosely held in one hand’s grasp, and his head cocks to the side. His helm fins slowly pulse a mixture of beige-pink in confused interest. He moves again, this time in the direction of the mech standing motionless in the common yard, staring upwards at seemingly nothing.

                He eventually comes to a stop in front of the mech, optics focused on the minute quiver of sensory panels.

                “What are you doing?” he asks, observing the panels twitch and then still, high and arched over the mech’s shoulders.

                “I’m learning the air currents. This is a very pretty campus. Do you like working here, Wheeljack?” Bluestreak asks, scanning the tops of the buildings.  “Because I would like working here. It’s so clean and orderly and new. Nothing like the precinct.”

                “Well, this is only the outside. You should see my lab,” Wheeljack replies, thinking of the piles of components he had been in the middle of sorting when he had realized there was a class he was supposed to be attending. He doesn’t get a chance to comment on the air currents remark as Bluestreak’s head whips around.  

                Bluestreak’s faceplates are open and earnest, optics wide with excitement. They are a deep blue, almost purple color, and Wheeljack finds himself staring into them, captivated.

                “I would really like that! I don’t have to escort Ratchet until later so if you had time I would really like to come to your lab. Do you mean it? Can I come to your lab?” Bluestreak asks, stepping forward and placing a hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder.

                Wheeljack blinks, again momentarily distracted by the excited dancing of the sensory panels over Bluestreak’s shoulders. Wheeljack hasn’t known Prowl for a long time, but he has still never seen the Enforcer’s panels move as much as Bluestreak’s. It’s rather a mesmerizing display to watch.

                “Sure,” Wheeljack says, checking his chronometer. He doesn’t have any obligations until his teaching lab later in the afternoon, and he is already ahead in the class that had started ten minutes ago. “Come on, mech. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

                Bluestreak smiles widely, and Wheeljack finds himself returning the expression.

                Bostech theory is truly an interesting subject. But for now, there’s something even more interesting which requires his attention.    


	2. Addictions - Smokescreen

                “Are you prepared for tomorrow?”

                Smokescreen stirred and turned his head to look at his brother. Prowl kept staring straight ahead, as if the ending credits for the vid they had been watching was the most fascinating thing in the world. Knowing Prowl, they probably were; he always liked to watch the vids to the end, to acknowledge the mechs and femmes responsible for the work they had participated in.

                Glancing down, Smokescreen noted that Bluestreak had fallen into recharge across their laps. Caught up in a memory purge, his sensory panels twitched frequently, brushing against Smokescreen’s arm. He reached out and gently stroked the nearest edge, soothing their cousin deeper into recharge.

                “I suppose so,” Smokescreen said, optics tracing the furrowed orbital ridges on Bluestreak’s faceplates. It was easier to look at than Prowl’s expression.

                “You do not sound all that confident,” Prowl remarked.

                “Confident about the material? Sure. I have tutored before, you know,” Smokescreen said crossly, finally glancing up.

                A small smile found its way to Prowl’s lip components. “Yes, I know. So if it is not the material, then what bothers you?”

                Smokescreen shifted in place, wishing Bluestreak wasn’t so firmly planted on top of them. He wanted to pace, get some distance between Smokescreen and Prowl’s all knowing optics.

                “You know what’s on my processor, Prowl,” Smokescreen replied, crossing his arms over his chassis and looking away.

                “It is unlikely that they will recognize you.”

                “How could they not?” Smokescreen exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. “Three years! Three years of being at nearly every match and one of the loudest cheering them on! Do you know how much money I’ve made, betting off the two of them?”

                Bluestreak stirred, his head blindly turning in response to Smokescreen’s raised voice. “Time for work?” he slurred, his processor still obviously mostly shut down.

                “No, sweetspark,” Prowl said softly, leaning over to pat Bluestreak’s shoulder. “It’s still nighttime. Go back to recharge.” His optics were soft as they traced their cousin’s face, now relaxing back into repose at Prowl’s reassurance. Prowl’s gaze turned rebuking as his optics rose to meet Smokescreen’s.

                “Sorry,” Smokescreen muttered, his own hand resuming its stroking of Bluestreak’s helm. Their cousin had been recharging poorly of late, and usually only when either of them were around. Prowl had good reason to look irritated with him for disturbing Bluestreak’s well deserved rest.

                “You have made a great deal of money off Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s fights,” Prowl continued quietly. “But you also managed to identify nearly every member of a notorious gambling ring. I am sure once they heard the explanation they would not hold it against you. If they did remember your faceplates.”

                “For the first two years,” Smokescreen said dryly. “This past year – what was my excuse then, Prowl?”

                Prowl’s lipplates pursed, and he turned to look back at the blank vid screen. Smokescreen’s penchance for gambling had been a point of contrition between them for years. It had been under much protest from Prowl that Smokescreen had been selected for the undercover assignment of ferreting out the identity of each mech involved in the gambling ring.

                Yet he had been perfect for the job. It had been a little too easy to portray the mech with a gambling addiction slipping back into old habits. And slipped he did. Even when the ring leaders fell, Smokescreen still regularly visited the dog rings in particular. The precinct had always turned a blind optic because he was Prowl’s brother and because they at least had a mech on the inside keeping tabs on things.

                “I’m proud of you,” Prowl said suddenly, and Smokescreen jerked his head up from where he had been intently scrutinizing his own fingers while experiencing the familiar shame.

                “What?”

                Prowl’s gaze met his own, his optics burning bright. “I’m proud of you,” he repeated. “I know it is a… struggle,” he said, referring to Smokescreen’s battle against his addiction. “You have greatly decreased your visitations to the fights. And I find it admirable that you would volunteer to do this.” Despite the formality of his words and his expressionless faceplates, Smokescreen knew Prowl meant every word of what he said. Smokescreen’s spark lurched even as he ducked his head in embarrassment.

                “It’s only right,” Smokescreen muttered. “If I had known…” he said with a shudder.

                “But no one did. Or at least no one who cared,” Prowl said. “It is fortunate that Ratchet discovered them when he did.”

                Smokescreen nodded in agreement, still horrified to think what would have happened to Sideswipe if Ratchet hadn’t stepped in.

                “It’s going to be difficult for them,” Smokescreen murmured, easily imaging the issues they could have developed under such circumstances.  

                Prowl frowned, nodding slowly. “Yes. But they have a good caretaker now. And the best of all tutors.”

                “And a high ranking Enforcer who keeps an optic out for them,” Smokescreen returned with a grin. Prowl tilted his head in acknowledgement.

                “There is that,” he said with a small smile. “There is that.”


	3. Setbacks - Jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz takes his responsibilities very seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be seen as Jazz/Prowl, but intended as a friendship piece. They *are* 'like this' as Jazz has previously said :) Speculations on 'tab A, slot B' will have to just continue on as before.

                Jazz threw himself onto the couch with an aggravated ex-vent, staring sightlessly at his lap in frustration. Even without looking, he could feel Prowl’s placid gaze on the side of Jazz’s helm, and it managed to annoy him even further. So he very maturely slouched farther down and crossed his arms over his bumper.

                “I take it from your… negative reaction… that Mirage has lost the assailant?” Prowl inquired.  

                Jazz ventured a glance at his companion to see Prowl seemingly absorbed in the data pad held in his hands. The screen flickered rapidly as Prowl pursued its contents by direct uplink. It didn’t mean that his fellow Enforcer wasn’t paying attention to Jazz’s mini tantrum; on the contrary, Prowl’s modified processer was quite used to handling multiple sources of input in order to run dozens of tactical simulations simultaneously.

                “Yes,” Jazz growled, turning his glare back onto the floor.

                There was a pause before Prowl spoke.

                “That is unfortunate. But Mirage has picked up cold trails before; perhaps he will do so again. It is still early; chances are fair.”

                “Fair!?”  Jazz exclaimed, shooting upwards to begin pacing in front of the couch in short, angry strides. “That’s what the paramedics said about Siders’ chances! ‘Fair’! Frag, Prowl! He was attacked in the building! _My_ building!”

                Jazz slid to a stop in front of Prowl, bent slightly at the waist wiith his thumb pressed against his chest. He felt it heaving with the force of his harsh ventiliations, felt the righteous anger bubble up once more.

                Prowl’s optics flicked away from the data pad to fully focus on Jazz. Carefully unplugging himself from the pad, Prowl placed it to the side and rested his hands palm-down on his thighs.

                “To be…”

                “Don’t ya dare say ‘fair’!” Jazz growled an interruption, pointing at Prowl.

                “… _accurate_ ,” Prowl continued, his expression turning slightly disapproving. Jazz sheepishly dropped his hand and placed it on his hip instead. “Ratchet was more than likely the target. And I have been in contact with Sideswipe’s surgeon; the surgery went well without complications. He will be fine after a few days of rest.”

                “Great! That’s good, Prowler. I mean it,” Jazz said, nodding rapidly. “But it doesn’t negate the fact that that fragger got past us!”

                “Got past you, you mean?” Prowl asked, and damn if he didn’t the nail right on the head.

                The building was supposed to be a safe place for the oft-targeted Enforcers who lived there, and Jazz had spent a great deal of both time and credits to ensure extra security measures were in place. On top of that, Jazz had been the one on patrol duty tonight, so it was a hit to his professional pride that the assassin had found a way in and around Jazz’s vigilance.

                “You cannot be everywhere at once, nor is any location ever completely secure. I do not blame you, Jazz. _They_ do not blame you.”

                “No. Just I do,” Jazz said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he plopped back down next to Prowl. Jazz didn’t understand why Prowl wasn’t more upset; this was their _home_. Ratchet and the twins were supposed to be _safe_ here. They all were.

                Then again, Jazz could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen Prowl’s composed visage crack. Showing his emotions wasn’t something that Prowl did often. Unlike Jazz, who was often an open data pad.

                “You are quite the accomplished tracker yourself,” Prowl offered after a long moment of Jazz’s continued sulk. Jazz briefly considered it, but then shook his head.

                “Thanks. But Mirage has ‘Bee with him. Too many mechs out there could muddy up the waters. Best I go and figure out how the fragger got past the scanners,” Jazz said with a sighed ventilation. Past the spark scanners and the energon readers and all the other expensive doodads he had installed throughout the building.

                “And yet…” Prowl said delicately, after nearly five minutes of them both staring at the opposite wall, “… you are still here.”

                Jazz turned his head to the side to meet Prowl’s optics, wishing the visor wasn’t such an integral part of his frame. Prowl was secretly a soft, melty energon goodie on the inside, no matter how stern and strict he appeared on the outside. On more than one occasion, Jazz had witnessed Bluestreak’s pleading optics wear his cousin down in a matter of seconds. Working with that he had, Jazz settled for downturned lipplates and a dejected slump to his shoulders that was only a quarter feigned.

                Prowl studied him for a long minute before huffing slightly. “You are ridiculous,” he murmured, lifting the arm closest to Jazz up in invitation. If a small, fond smile lifted the corners of Prowl’s lips, well, no one but the two of them were around to witness it.  

                Jazz eagerly tilted to the side and down, wriggling for several moments until his head was positioned squarely in Prowl’s lap, one arm curling beneath and around Prowl’s knee.

                A hand landed atop Jazz’s helm, thumb lightly rubbing the outer edge of his sensory horn. Visor dimming, Jazz’s engine slowed down to a purred idle, tension draining out of his frame.

                He needed to physically look over the scanners to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with. In all likelihood, the attacker had used one of the illegal spark dampeners occasionally found on the black market. However, it didn’t hurt to scour the building for possible clues to the assassin’s identity.

                But for now, he would absorb as much of Prowl’s calm as he could, let it wash away his fury until his processer was clear once more.

                Clear enough to track down this drone reject and teach him what it meant to come into Jazz’s domain uninvited.

 

~ End

               


End file.
